December 8, 2016: It’s 1:17am. Hands clenched, I stare at a dark ceiling. I can’t sleep. Not because I don’t want to, but because I am aware of suffering…right next to me.
John is hurting.
I hear every whimper, every groan, every sigh. He appears to be asleep, but his body is saying otherwise. He struggles to turn to his side, the effort almost impossible. After another moan, he again settles.
I can’t take it anymore. As quietly as possible, I get up and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Weariness consumes me. As I wait for the water to heat, I calculate that I’ve had only three hours of sleep…if I can call that half-stupor “rest.” Head bowed, I slump against the counter.
That’s all I can utter. What prayer do I begin that I haven’t said a thousand times already in the last few days? Does He even hear me?
I stare at the ceiling again—this time its details are visible because of the range hood light. I know He sees. I know He hears. What more can I say?
The Lord’s Prayer tumbles into my mind. Jesus told His followers to call God in heaven “Abba” which roughly translates to Daddy.
“Daddy…have mercy,” I plead to the stark white above me. That’s all. I don’t know what to ask for that doesn’t sound selfish or whiny.
After I finish my tea, I crawl back under the covers in the dark bedroom. I hold my breath, listening. John’s side of the bed is too quiet. With trepidation, I reach over to make certain he is okay. When I feel warm skin, I breathe a sigh. I whisper into the darkness, “Thanks, Daddy.”
Knowing I can call the God of the universe my Father cocoons my heart with comfort. No matter what John and I face, I know my Daddy is watching over us.